Ransom of the Red Pirate
by chappysmom
Summary: Young Sherlock Holmes is just minding his own business when two kidnappers come to take him away ... boy, have they just made a mistake! (6 chapters)
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing here but my own ideas—everything else belongs to ACD and the BBC (with a nod to O. Henry for the title). Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors are my own.

* * *

Sherlock adjusted his hat on his head and surveyed the stream. By his calculations, the fish should be resting in the deepest part, yet it seemed devoid of aquatic life altogether. Gently poking at the still pool with a stick, he considered. What might cause that? An imbalance of fungi preventing food from growing for the fish? Chemicals in the water making it an unhealthy environment?

He leaned forward, careful not to fall in. His nanny had been so upset with him the last time (well, three times) it had happened. He didn't exactly care about her or her rules, but she had finally learned that, while going without supper did not distress him, having his books taken away _did_. It would be best to avoid the scolding—if only because it was such a waste of time.

A snapping twig behind him startled him and he turned … too quickly, and, boots sliding on the wet moss, he fell backwards into the deepest part of the stream.

"My hat!" He lunged for it as it began to fill with water but was caught from behind before he could dive after it. He squirmed, trying to shrug off whoever was helping him from the stream. He didn't care about being wet, but that was his _pirate_ hat. It had taken him months to get one—he'd even resorted to asking his parents politely. He wasn't letting it go without a fight.

There was only so much he could do, though. He was only seven years, six months, and one day old, after all. No matter how he might like to believe otherwise, he was no match for a full-grown adult, much less the two who were struggling to pull him from the stream.

Part of him wondered where they had come from. The woods had been empty just a moment ago, and his parents had a very strict no-trespassers policy for the estate, but that didn't matter at the moment. What mattered was rescuing his hat before it was ruined. And so, he let the tears well up in his eyes as he looked over his shoulder. "No, my hat! I have to have my hat! It … it was a birthday present! Mummy will kill me if I lose it, and it's my favorite. Just let me get my hat!"

Simple tears weren't working. How disappointing. The two men were still holding his arms, too, even though he was safely out of the stream now, which was odd, because there was no reason for that. Even with Father's no-trespassing policy, it wasn't unheard of for people to pass through, but they usually treated Sherlock with respect (usually by giving him a wide berth when they saw him).

Then he saw the canvas bag and the rope dropped beside the stream, and realized.

This was a kidnapping.

_He_ was being kidnapped.

He knew he should be frightened, that that would be the correct response to the sudden uncertainty of a life-and-death situation, but honestly … he was thrilled. This was the most exciting thing that had happened to him all summer!

He pretended not to realize, though, because he really did want his hat back. Neither grip on his arms was particularly cruel—they held just tight enough to keep him from escaping, but not enough to intentionally hurt, which meant they had some kind of moral standards about not harming a child. Simple tears hadn't moved them, though, but … they wouldn't want damaged goods, would they?

And so he flew into a full-blown tantrum. "No! I have to have it! Let me go! I can get it myself! I've got my boots on and I've waded in the stream a million times, but the water's _ruining_ it!"

He yelled as loudly as he could (knowing full well there was no-one within earshot, as any number of experiments in sound production had proven over the course of the summer). His kidnappers didn't know that, though, and abruptly, a large hand came down on his mouth, blocking off the words. Sherlock continued to struggle, letting tears stream down his face as he kept his gaze locked on his rapidly-sinking hat. (He really was quite unhappy about that. It wouldn't matter that it had been lost through no fault of his own, his parents would still expect him to maintain his personal belongings properly and he'd much prefer to avoid the lecture.)

Finally, as he was starting to find it a little difficult to maintain his tantrum without being able to breathe through his mouth, the kidnapper holding him said, "Christ, go get him his bloody hat. Maybe it'll help him calm him down."

Sherlock took advantage of the man's distraction to pull his head away enough to bite the hand in front of his face and then kicked hard with his booted foot so that he could lunge toward the stream. He was promptly tackled by the other man before he could get far, though, but he just screamed, "I need my hat!" and saw the man yielding with a flicker of his eye. He promptly changed tactics, "Please," he whimpered. "Mummy gave it to me for my birthday."

Aha! The man's shoulders slumped and he told the first man—who was still rubbing at his knee and shaking his bitten hand—"Go get it, then."

"What? Me? Why don't you get it?" The tone was all indignation, and Sherlock tried not to smile, keeping his earnest, hopeful look on his face.

"Because I've got the boy, that's why. Now hurry up."

The larger man heaved a sigh as Sherlock blinked up at him with large, teary eyes. "Fine," he said as he trudged into the stream, wincing at the cold water as he waded through, reaching for the hat … and then stumbling as his foot hit the deep part and he fell face first into the water.

Sherlock couldn't help stifle the giggle as the man surged upright, hat in his hand and dripping slimy green water from his hair to his toes. Really, you'd think the man had never been near a stream before. Didn't he know to watch for the deep parts?

He was complaining loudly, though, as he struggled to the bank to lumber out. "Jesus Christ, look at me!" He thrust the hat at Sherlock and then just stood there, dripping as he leaned on his knees, panting for breath.

The man holding Sherlock was trying not to laugh and for a moment, Sherlock almost felt sorry for the other man. He hated being bullied and laughed at, too. But then he was pulled to his feet and the soggy hat thrust on his head as the larger man picked up the rope. Sherlock let his eyes go wide. "What … what are you doing?" he asked, proud of the quaver he inserted.

"Just behave, kid, and there won't be any problems," the dripping man said irritably as he advanced with the rope. Sherlock watched him carefully, gauging the level of irritation.

"What kind of problems?" he asked, his lip quivering. "I don't think Mummy will be angry about you making me fall in the stream, especially since you were nice enough to get my hat for me, but she's expecting me for lunch and I don't want to be late."

The hands holding him tightened ever so slightly. "How about you come and have lunch with us instead? I'm sure Mummy won't mind."

Behind him, Sherlock felt the man's head nod up and down and he quickly went over his options. He could probably break free and run, but they were larger and probably faster than he and would no doubt be quite put out once they caught him. His best option would be to go along and wait for an opportunity to escape. And so he blinked up at the man, eyes wide, and said, "But I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

This was entirely true. His parents had been quite adamant, but their rationale had been that it was because he annoyed the strangers rather than it being a safety issue. This still confused Sherlock. You'd think adults would be delighted to find children who could have intelligent conversations (certainly Sherlock would be he ever found any).

The man in front looked past him and frowned. "This is why he wasn't supposed to see our faces."

"What, like it's my fault that he fell into the stream? It's not like we could let him drown."

"Well, no, but now we're having a conversation with the kid and this wasn't supposed to happen."

Sherlock put on his clueless child face—not really one of his best, but adults were so used to conversations going over their children's heads, no-one ever noticed that he wasn't as ignorant as they thought. Entertaining though this conversation was, it wasn't helping anything move along and he had things to do this afternoon, so he piped up, "How would we have lunch together if I couldn't see your face?"

The man just blinked at him. "That's a good question." He seemed so surprised. It made Sherlock wince for the man's children—and rather hope the man chose not to reproduce. "Look, why don't you just come with us and we'll … we'll buy you some ice cream. How does that sound?"

How did that sound? It was all Sherlock could do not to wince. The man was aware that children were taught not to take food from strangers, wasn't he? How pathetic was it that he thought a simple bribe of ice cream would suffice to make Sherlock willingly go with him? Did he really think Sherlock was that stupid?

For that matter, did he really care what the kidnapper thought of him? He was proud of being intelligent, but was it more important to seem smart to this kidnapper or to actually _be_ smart and get as much out of this experience as possible?

So he nodded shyly, purposely making the pirate hat tilt to the side because he knew it made him look extra 'cute' and then began to babble disarmingly. "But I need to tell Mummy. Can we call her? Do you have a phone? I'm not allowed to have one yet."

The hands on his shoulders eased their hold as the man behind him said, "Yeah, okay kid. I can promise we'll be calling your Mum. But meantime, how about you just come with us." He pointed east—toward the road.

Sherlock nodded happily and considered skipping along, but decided that would be too ridiculous even for him. Instead, he walked along, chattering about trees and leaves and nests in the same disingenuous fashion his schoolmates would, though he wasn't shy about throwing in large words because he'd found that adults tended to think a few multisyllabic words in a child were endearing. (Though too many became 'odd' or 'creepy,' apparently, and Sherlock was still trying to plot the exact location of the line.)

After a few minutes' walking, while the two kidnappers glanced around nervously and tried to hurry him along, Sherlock suddenly said, "Look! A nest! Erithacus rubecula!" and was halfway up a nearby spruce tree before the men could react. "These are really rare!"

He knew he wouldn't be able to stay in the tree for long, but he was curious what the mens' reaction would be. Would they be angry and try to force him down? How anxious _were_ they to get to their car?

Really, this was the most fun he'd had all summer.

"Kid! Come down from there!"

"You've got to come down, Sher … er … did you ever tell us your name?"

He was being kidnapped by idiots, Sherlock thought, but he blithely shook his head. "No, but my name's Sherlock. What's yours?"

"I'm Joe and this is Davy," the smaller kidnapper said, smiling in what he probably thought was a friendly manner. "And if you stay up there, we'll be late for lunch, and I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

That was actually a good tactic, Sherlock thought. Most adults tried giving orders before being reduced to logic. (This made no sense to him, because shouldn't logic be the first course of action? Always? For everything?) "But … the nest. If I come down right away, I won't be able to study it, and my teacher says one should always take an opportunity to learn new things."

Davy was clenching his hands into fist, but Joe just said, "How about you bring the nest down with you? Then you can study it on the way to lunch, but we won't be late?"

Sherlock looked down at him, just refraining from swinging his legs in glee. This was really quite entertaining. He supposed he should reward the man for actually thinking of a reasonable argument. He looked back at the nest. It was beaten about the edges with a few tufts of old down stuck to the sides so … not currently being used. Bringing it along would not be a hardship to the robin. He wouldn't want to cause the bird any harm, after all, even if they were common as dirt.

He nodded down at the man and carefully lifted the nest in his hands. They really were marvels of construction, he thought, considering they were made by creatures with no hands or intelligence other than base instinct.

He was concentrating so hard on lifting the nest without damaging it that he realized he had no way to get it down the tree safely. He looked down at the handy coil of rope and the bag that Davy was carrying and called down. "Can I borrow the bag? And the rope? Because otherwise I don't think I can get this down safely."

Davy looked outraged, as if using his things for something other than the kidnapping he had planned was somehow inappropriate. "No, kid. I'm not giving you my rope. Just get down here and leave the bloody nest if you have to."

"But, it's really rare!" Sherlock told him, making his voice as earnest as he could. It wasn't strictly true, of course, but if the kidnapper didn't recognize the latin name for the common robin, it was hardly Sherlock's fault.

"I don't care. It's … it's … unsanitary. You can't bring it to lunch so, you might as well just leave it there."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but if you won't help, I'll just have to try carrying it." He considered putting the nest in his hat—it would just about fit—but why show his ingenuity when the stupid kidnapper was being so … stupid?

Instead, he put on a show of trying to balance in the tree with one hand holding the nest while he tried to feel his way down the branches. He feigned almost losing his grip (and then almost did lose it because, really, it was hard to climb a tree while carrying a nest), but he managed to get a little lower before stopping to cling to the trunk, looking beseechingly down at the nervous men below. "Are you sure you won't lend me your rope?"

The two men turned to each other and began whispering furiously. Sherlock could hear some words drifting up to his branch. "_We've got to get him out of here!_" "_Well, how are we supposed to get him down the tree?_" "_Just lend him your bloody rope already before he falls and gets hurt. You know we're not supposed to hurt him—they won't pay anything if he's hurt!_"

Sherlock allowed himself to look hopeful as they turned their faces up toward him again. "Okay, fine. Why don't you come down here to get it? Then you can go back for the nest?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you won't let me back up. I know that trick. Adults think children are so stupid." It always frustrated him, too. He was well aware that adults had greater experience and (theoretically) more accumulated knowledge than children. At seven (and a half) he knew there were things he didn't yet know and plenty of things he had not yet _done_, but that did not mean he was stupid.

Really, it was almost appalling how idiotic these kidnappers were. They were being outsmarted by a child—had they no shame? The fact that Sherlock was an exceptional child really should be no excuse.

Down on the ground, Davy heaved a frustrated sigh. "Fine, then. I'll toss the end of the rope up to you, right? Then you'll come down with your … nest." (Sherlock was amused at the way he obviously censored himself but found himself wishing he could have heard what the man was going to say. So few people he knew ever swore, he was curious about common usage.) "Once you're down here, we'll go straight to the car to get lunch."

"And ice cream," added Joe. "I don't know about you, but I'm really looking forward to the ice cream. It's so hot today."

Happy with the results of his experiment—and not really wanting to make the men angry enough to incite violence—Sherlock agreed and within ten minutes, he was on the ground, nest safely in the canvas bag, and his hands full of rope. "Can we play Pirate on the way to the car?" he asked.

"Play … pirate?"

He nodded. "I'll be the captain and you can be my first mate," he pointed at Davy, "And you can be my prisoner and walk the plank."

"What? Me? Why am I the prisoner?" protested Joe. "Make Davy walk the plank—he's already wet enough."

"Oi! Nobody's walking the plank," Davy said, something crafty in his eye. "And we're not playing pirate … not unless I get to be captain."

"You can't be captain," Sherlock told him. "You haven't got the hat. And before you say it, no, you can't borrow mine. It wouldn't fit."

"That's true, but if you play prisoner, that means you can try to escape. Everybody knows that's more fun, because then you get to try to win the ship from the captain, isn't that right, Joe?"

"Um, yeah." Sherlock almost winced at the slow speed with which the idea took hold as Joe nodded. "We could pretend you're our prisoner … like pirates … or _spies_."

The man's voice was almost strained as he tried to insert as much conviction into it as he could. Sherlock considered. It was true that he was having fun, but he could see this escalating out of his control very quickly if either of these two (large, strong) men got their hands on him again. He had no doubt he could outwit them, but no illusions about being able to outfight them.

Still, by conceding, by pretending he was convinced this was a game, he could still retain some leverage, as well as making his kidnappers think well of his conciliatory nature. Not to mention keeping them ignorant that he knew what they were up to.

"All right," he said. "I'll be the prisoner—as long as I can keep my hat."

#

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Note: I haven't read O. Henry's "Ransom of Red Chief" since high school … so, you know, since the 80s … but I keep thinking back to it. Because, yes, he wrote a story in 1910 about a holy terror of a boy whose kidnappers end up paying his father to take him back. I don't remember the details (and had to look up the author, since I didn't recall that, either), but I remembered enough that I'm acknowledging it here. I don't remember if that kid was deliberately playing with the kidnappers or if he was just truly that awful, but naturally, this being Sherlock … very much deliberate. Somehow, I think that if you paired a young Sherlock Holmes against O. Henry's Red Chief … Sherlock would win. Of course, it's also possible he just made a terrible mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock squirmed on Davy's shoulder. He hadn't expected to be bound so thoroughly. Since they were "pretending," he had thought a loop or two of rope around his chest and arms and then a forced march through the woods, but no. The moment he had agreed to being "prisoner" the two men had moved forward with far more efficiency than he had expected, forcing the sack over his head and then wrapping his form in rope before bundling him up and carrying him off at full speed through the woods.

As the bird's nest shifted to scratch his face, he wondered if he had perhaps miscalculated.

"This sure is fun, isn't it, Davy?" Joe's voice still had the forced joviality from before, as if he were still trying to jolly Sherlock along.

"I know I'm happier now." Sherlock could feel Davy's grumbling voice vibrating through the bag, right into his ear. "The sooner we get this over with, the better. The kid gives me the creeps."

"Hey," protested Sherlock, as if still believing this to be a game, but Davy was obviously done humoring him because he just tightened his grip and started walking faster.

Sherlock was starting to feel a little queasy, with his stomach bouncing on Davy's hard shoulder with every jogging step. The air inside the bag was getting hotter by the moment, too. He could only be grateful that the brim of his hat kept the rough burlap away from his face. He tried to pay attention to where they were going, but being blind, upside-down, half-stifled and nauseated was interfering with his sense of direction. His sense of time wasn't working any better, because it felt like they'd been walking for at least half an hour, but at this pace, he knew it wasn't nearly that far to the road. If they were going to the road?

He felt Davy's all-too-solid shoulder relax a bit as a hint of a breeze blew through the gaps in the burlap to the sound of distant traffic. They were out of the woods, then. He wondered where they'd parked their car (van?), or if they had a get-away driver. He hoped they were close, though, because he was feeling woozy and he hated it. Lack of oxygen, he suspected, plus the heat.

He only partly registered when they stopped walking and he heard the sound of a car opening.

"…the boot is safer…"

"…just a kid, and he's cooperating…"

"…fine, but if this goes wrong…"

He heard another door open and then he was being thrust into the back seat of a car. It was broiling from sitting in the sun and he struggled, already sweating from the stifling sack. There was no choice, he had to ask. Keeping his voice light, he struggled to sit up, calling, "Can you take the bag off now? It's really hot in here!"

But strong hands just pushed him down. "No, not yet. Not until … until we're at the pirate ship. Until then, you've got to stay quiet."

Sherlock was just starting to protest (he really _was_ hot) when he felt himself being covered by a heavy rug that felt scratchy on his bare knees.

Normally, Sherlock wasn't bothered by the heat, and prowling the woods wearing a felt pirate hat and knee-high boots didn't faze him at all, but this … this was starting to be a problem. The car was already hot from the July sun and with his paraphernalia, the bag, the rope _and_ the wool blanket—and the bird's nest? Well, it was hot.

At least the nauseating bouncing had stopped, he thought. He really shouldn't have been surprised that some physical disadvantages would make thinking so difficult. But now? It was just heat. He could work with this.

He squirmed carefully, testing the bonds. They weren't cruelly tight, but they kept the suffocating bag in place, which therefore restricted his movements. His arms were bound to his side and while his legs were free of the bag, they were tied, too (and now hampered by the blanket).

Still, his jack-knife was in his pocket, since they hadn't bothered to search him, and he was confident he could escape given the time … except he doubted he would have that now. His abductors obviously did not want draw attention to themselves, and if he made too much fuss right now, they would just move him to the boot. There, he might have the privacy to escape, but he wouldn't be able to get out before the car stopped.

He just wished it wasn't so hot. It felt like his brain was drenched in honey, making it slow and sticky.

"Guys? I don't think I like this game anymore," he called weakly through the blanket, his mouth desperately dry even as the rest of him was wet with perspiration. (A Holmes does not sweat, his mother always told him.)

He thought he heard a muffled laugh and then the crack of a plastic water bottle being opened, and then he started to feel angry. It wasn't enough that they had nearly ruined his hat and tried to kidnap him? (Tried, he told himself firmly, because he had _chosen_ to be here.) Or that they were stupid enough to think a robin's nest was rare? Now they were _laughing_ at him? When he'd been so obliging?

Oh, now Sherlock was angry. Ignoring the heat, he started to catalog his advantages. When this car finally stopped, he would be ready.

#

He could feel the car slowing down to turn into a rough, bumpy road, and after a thankfully brief drive across its ruts and holes, the car finally came to a stop. Sherlock had lost track of the time. He had managed a look at his watch earlier, grateful for its back-light, but this part of his plan required him to remain absolutely still, and so he couldn't risk the squirming necessary to get a peek.

He could hear the rumble of grown-up voices, then the car shook as doors were opened and closed, and then he heard Joe's voice, "Okay, Sherlock, we're here. Time to come be a proper prisoner!" A hand pulled back the blanket, but he didn't move, staying limp and still. "Sherlock? Oh, Christ. Davy, he's not moving!"

"He's probably just asleep." The other man's voice was unconcerned. "Carry him in. He'll be right enough soon, and we need to call his parents."

Sherlock felt himself being tugged toward the door, and then lifted, but he forced himself to stay limp. He had told them that it was hot, after all. They should have listened.

He could feel cool air sifting through the burlap as he was carried away from the car. They went up three steps and through a narrow doorway, then he was carefully laid down on what felt like a couch before hands began pulling somewhat frantically at the rope.

"What the hell are you doing, Joey? If you wake him up, we're just going to have to entertain him again. Believe me, it's better that he stay asleep and quiet."

Joe's voice was worried. "I don't think he's asleep, Davy. I think he passed out."

"Oh please. From what, fright?"

"No, the heat. He told us he was hot, didn't he? The car was like an oven and we weren't covered in about twenty pounds of wool!"

Sherlock felt Joe pulling at the bag, now, trying to get to his face, and recruited himself to remain totally still and to show no reaction when (he hoped) he got his first breath of fresh air in what had to have been hours.

"Oh, Christ," Joe murmured, his voice almost scared now. "He's as red as a beet and barely breathing. Wake up, Sherlock. Can you hear me? Wake up!"

There was a gentle slap on his face, but Sherlock stayed completely limp, trying to keep his breathing shallow. It was harder than he thought now that there was fresh, relatively cool air on his face. Joe was panicking nicely, however, chanting, "What do we do? What do we do?" over and over as he tugged at the rope still draped around Sherlock's limbs.

"Huh. He really doesn't look too good, does he?" Davy's voice came. "Maybe he really was hot."

"No shit, genius," Joe snapped. "The question is, what do we do _now_?"

"Cool him off?"

"With what? Ice? A cold bath? What are the signs of heat stroke, again? Is he dehydrated?"

"Do I look like a doctor to you?"

Sherlock stifled a smile at Davy's irritability. That had been so predictable—that Davy would be cranky and Joe would be the worrier. Not that he expected extraordinary TLC here, or anything, but he was counting on the fact that they would be so concerned, they wouldn't restrain him. They wouldn't tie up a child suffering from heat stroke, would they?

"Look, just get some ice. And some water! Sherlock? Can you hear me?" Joe's voice was nicely frantic. "Oh, Jesus, we are in so much trouble if this kid gets sick. The boss was very firm about that. Come on, Sherlock. Wake up!"

There was some rustling and then the blessed coolness of an ice pack touched his forehead and it was all Sherlock could do not to hiss in relief. It felt so _good_. He couldn't help his skin pulling into a shiver, though, as Joe moved the pack down to his chest. Some physical reactions were simply not controllable and he wouldn't be able to maintain the fiction of unconsciousness for long. So he let out a tiny moan, shifting his head ever so slightly.

"Thank God," Joe breathed. "He's coming 'round." There was a crackle of a water bottle being opened and Sherlock felt a bottle being held to his lips. What on earth was the man thinking? Trying to pour water down the throat of an unconscious boy? Apparently the man had reconsidered his earlier opinion on drowning, Sherlock thought as he swallowed the water—a better choice than choking on it, and he really was quite thirsty.

He let his eyelids flutter a bit as he opened them, blinking them wide and uncertain. "Are we there? Can I be captain now?" He waved his hand weakly in the air.

He felt oddly touched by the relief on Joe's face—so few people ever showed any kind of relief when Sherlock was in the room—though he knew it was because the man only wanted him healthy to get a ransom.

"Uh, maybe in a bit, Sherlock. But right now you just sit there and rest—and drink this. I guess it got kind of hot, huh?"

Sherlock struggled to sit up, and nodded, not sure what to say. The water tasted wonderful as it filled his mouth and slid down his parched throat. He didn't think he'd ever been quite so thirsty—or hot. He looked around suddenly for his hat and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it half-hidden in the sack from when Joe pulled it off his head. He reached out to clutch at it, but couldn't quite bear the thought of putting it back on his head. Not until he'd cooled off.

Sipping his water, he looked past Joe, noting the dismal sitting room in … was this a caravan? He'd never been in one before and, dingy though it was, he was fascinated to see how the fittings were worked in. He wondered if it was drivable, or if it was one that had been attached to a foundation. It was dark outside the windows, though … how long had they been driving? Or was that just deep shade from being in the woods?

Davy was leaning against the refrigerator in the 'kitchen,' watching with hooded eyes. He was the more decisive of the two, thought Sherlock, but had little patience, even if he had gone along with Sherlock's delaying tactics earlier. It wasn't like they had been in a public place, either, where keeping Sherlock quiet would have been important. So why had he humored him then? Especially after having fallen in the stream fetching his hat? There had been no question the man had been angry, but he had still gone along with Sherlock's antics.

It was really much more intriguing than Joe's responses. He was more sympathetic, more worried, but he was the one who kept mentioning money, no matter now obliquely. He had the adult's habit of talking to Sherlock as if he was indulging him, as if acknowledging his existence was some kind of favor instead of basic human nature. Nobody familiar with children actually did that—just adults who believed that was the correct thing to do. (The ones who apparently couldn't remember what it was like to be a child themselves.)

Ergo, Davy had some experience with children, even if he didn't like them much, while Joe apparently did not.

Therefore, Joe would be easier to manipulate—not because he seemed more sympathetic/worried, but because he was less familiar with the means children tried to get their own way.

Davy, on the other hand, might be more wary, but ultimately cared more about children in general. (Well, when he said 'care'…) Hadn't he willingly, if grumblingly, waded into the stream to get Sherlock's hat? He hadn't even tried reaching it with a stick first, which Sherlock found intriguing. One didn't expect a kidnapper to be indulgent, after all.

As he revived with the water, he smiled up at his kidnappers. "I guess I fell asleep in the car. Did I miss lunch?"

Joe looked relieved. "Er, yeah. But you're okay now, right? Not too hot?"

Sherlock shrugged, but didn't say anything, letting a trace of uncertainty cross his face.

"Something wrong? You're not feeling sick?"

He shook his head. "No…"

"Hungry? We owe you that ice cream, don't we, Davy?"

But Sherlock shook his head again. Really, the thought of putting anything in his stomach right now was altogether unappealing. He saw the two men exchange a look. They were concerned, but for different reasons. Joe was still worrying about his health, but Davy, with his narrowed eyes, thought Sherlock was getting suspicious. (Frankly, Sherlock had to agree. What kind of idiot child would he be _not_ to be concerned at this point? He'd been tied up, carried off, nearly smothered in a car on the way to this unknown destination with two complete strangers. Could there possibly be children so oblivious that they would not be having second thoughts by now?

Accordingly, he let his eyes dart around the room. (Rooms? How did one refer to a single space divided into multiple functions? Did people really live this way? The space seemed so small.) "I … I really should call my Mum," he finally said, letting his voice quaver. "She'll be worried."

It wasn't true, of course. His relationship with his parents was distant at best. He believed they cared, technically, but they were never warm, never affectionate. In addition, they were away for the next several weeks. In all honesty, being here with the kidnappers was more interesting than being home with his nanny. That wasn't to say she probably wasn't worried at the moment, but that was no doubt because she feared for her job rather than for his life.

Still, the necessity of contacting home when delayed had been impressed upon him (though the absurdity of then not allowing him a mobile was illogical). He should probably let someone know where he was, shouldn't he? Except that stupid nanny would likely prefer to be kept in doubt than to be assured he was in danger through her own negligence. (It didn't matter if that was true or not—his parents left him in her care and, well, here he was. Ergo, it was her fault. He confessed to the slightest bit of trepidation on that score since, after all, he had chosen to come.)

"Well," said Joe, pulling a brand-new, cheap phone from his pocket. "Let's send her a picture to let you know you're okay, shall we?" He snapped a picture of Sherlock and bent to the keyboard, laboriously entering in a number. Sherlock mentally tsk'ed to himself. The man hadn't had the sense to ask him for a number first. Really, their cover of 'new friends' was slipping badly.

Sherlock tipped his empty water bottle upside down. "I need to…"

"Use the loo? Sure, mate. It's right over there."

Sherlock gave Joe a happy smile and took the bottle with him into the tiny little bathroom. (Seriously, people lived like this? It was like being in a dollhouse, and Sherlock was totally fascinated.) He used the toilet and then refilled his water bottle at the small, faded pink sink. He didn't entirely trust them not to try drugging his water as the evening went on and, well, he was still thirsty.

While he had a moment, he poked at the crown of his hat. It was still damp, but no longer soaked. He pulled aside the lining and fingered the distress button thoughtfully. All he needed to do was press it and help would be there within half an hour. His father had been quite clear on that when he'd given the hat. It was there for emergencies and never to be used as a test a la _boy cries wolf_. It had also been made quite clear that it could be used to find him if he was ever out of touch for too long.

The question was, did he want to be rescued quite yet? Now that Joe had sent that photo, this could all come to an end fairly quickly if his parents reacted (overreacted?) to what he assumed was a ransom demand.

Except, he was so _bored_ at home. It had been lonely ever since Mycroft left for school, and now he was away for the summer as well … what did he have to rush home to other than a cranky nanny with too many rules?

Thoughtfully, he pulled a pin out of the waterproof match box and aiming carefully, disabled the tracker.

He wasn't ready to go home yet.

#

* * *

Note:

Yes, I rather love the idea of young Sherlock having a distress button as well as a tiny survival kit in the crown of his hat. I mean, this is _Sherlock_ we're talking about. And yes, when the "real" Sherlock was this age sometime in the early/mid-80s, there were no mobile phones, no GPS trackers, which makes this kind of a more modern-day AU, I suppose, if only because I absently put in modern tech into the story and would rather move forward than go back to remove the anachronisms. Just go with it.

Meanwhile, it can't possibly be a surprise that Sherlock-being Sherlock-has made this move in an unexpected, slightly less lighthearted direction. I'm not entirely sure that's a good thing, but at the same time, like where it's going ... what do you folks think?


	3. Chapter 3

Leaving the bathroom with his refilled bottle of water, Sherlock cheerfully looked at his kidnappers. "So, what shall we play next?"

"Aren't we playing Pirate anymore?" asked Davy with a smirk.

Sherlock shook his head and considered scuffing his toe against the rug before deciding that would be too trite. "It's two against one and you're both bigger than me. It's not fair."

The kidnappers looked at each other with one of those "he has no idea" kind of adult smiles that he wasn't supposed to notice, but then Joe nodded. "I suppose you've got a point. What would you like to play instead?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "I don't know. What have you got?"

"Er … we don't really have any games handy." Joe was clearly taken by surprise by the question. "Didn't you have a deck of cards, Davy?"

"I am _not_ playing Go Fish with the kid all night," the taller man said firmly.

"No, no, nothing like that," Joe said with a glance at Sherlock. "I bet the kid here is plenty bright and can learn some other game. You ever play poker, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to keep his face from lighting up. Oh, this evening could be so much fun.

#

"Full house," Sherlock said, laying down his cards and leaning forward to gather his winnings.

Joe threw down his cards in disgust. "I don't believe this! How is this possible? You're what, six years old? Is this really the first time you've played?"

"Seven years six months," Sherlock corrected him, admiring his pile of winnings. They didn't have proper poker chips, and so were using M&Ms. After an hour's play, without even really trying, 87% of them belonged to Sherlock. "And yes. I don't think any of my nannies knew how to play poker—not that they were much interested in playing games with me, anyway."

"What about your parents?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They're not home much, and when they are, they're busy. Mostly I just entertain myself, now my brother's at school."

He saw the two men exchange glances and paused. "Why? What's wrong with that?"

Joe just gave his own shrug. "Most families don't work that way, mate. Usually the parents raise the kids, and everybody's in each other's hair until they grow up and move out. In my house, there was barely room to breathe, we were all right on top of each other."

Sherlock looked around at the small caravan again, trying to picture actually living in such a tiny space. What could be fun for a holiday (or a friendly kidnapping) would be quite different on a regular basis. He thought about his set of rooms back home, with large expanses of floor to spread out his experiments or to throw things. He had a full-sized tent pitched in the middle of his sitting room right now. He thought about how the front hall echoed, and how he could count on one hand the number of weeks in a year when he, his parents, and Mycroft were all there at the same time.

He looked back down at his pile of winnings and, on impulse, took one and ate it.

"Oi! You're not supposed to eat the chips!" Davy protested.

"Why not? I won them. And I never get candy at home."

Another odd exchange of looks between the two men, and then Davy said, "Yeah, but … if you eat them, it doesn't give us a chance to win them back, does it?"

Sherlock ducked his head down, momentarily confused. Had his kidnappers just showed sympathy toward him? In a way that had nothing to do with their possible remuneration but stemmed directly from a conversation about how his family didn't play games?

Curious. Very curious, indeed.

#

It was later now. Sherlock was slumped sideways on the small couch, feigning sleep, listening to the two men whispering again. He wondered if they had any idea how their voices carried, even though they were trying to be quiet.

The topic seemed to be whether it was better to tie him up for the night or to just let him sleep. To his surprise, neither of them seemed to _want_to restrain him, they just felt that they probably _should_.

Really, this entire experience was going quite differently than he had expected. When he had decided to allow himself to be kidnapped (because he still had no doubt he could have escaped), he had thought it would be a pleasant diversion for a few hours, and then he would go home. He hadn't expected to … well, not 'like' his kidnappers, but to be totally enthralled by them.

It wasn't Stockholm Syndrome, either. He had read about that when his parents had first told him about the possibility of being kidnapped. (He had almost been relieved to learn that his parents were both so important and so busy. It made him feel like less of a failure for being able to capture their interest.) He understood the dynamics of the relationship between abductor and abductee—how important it was for the victim to try to ingratiate themselves to their captors, to make them less willing to kill if things should go badly. He knew it was a victim's responsibility to try to get away.

So … why hadn't he?

He thought about how, ever since they had found him alongside the stream, he had been the focus of attention for both these men. They had talked to him, not just over him as adults were wont to do. They had played games and been more patient than his nanny was—and she was paid to spend time with him.

He was not deluding himself. He knew the reason they were here was to extort money from his parents. It wasn't that they liked him, or chose him of all possible children to spend time with.

It was just that … no matter what the reason … they _were_ spending time with him. He could never remember being the focus of so much relatively benign adult attention before. Angry attention from an adult about to lay down a punishment or scolding, yes. Passing benevolent acts, like when the cook sent him up extra biscuits for tea on days when he'd been denied a meal for misbehaving, yes. Concentrated attention by so-called medical professionals seeking to figure out what made him 'abnormal,' god, yes. But an adult having an actual conversation? For no reason other than that they chose to?

This had not happened to him. Ever, that he could remember. Not for longer than a polite five minutes at school or outside church.

His kidnappers were under no obligation to speak with him or to treat him kindly. (And he was forced to admit that, other than the car ride here, they had been unexpectedly kind.)

So, why did they?

For that matter, why was _he_ being so obliging? Other than that one, testing move up the tree—which since he had gone directly up, couldn't have been considered him being a flight risk—he had gone along with their suggestions and games and was being 'good.' Not because he was afraid of being harmed, but because he was _fascinated_.

It was true that he was lonely much of the time, but that didn't bother him, not really. He didn't find any of the house staff interesting enough to want to bother with them. His own company was better than listening to them wittering away, talking about football or makeup or whatever boring, mundane topic struck their fancy. He was well aware he was only seven years old, but he was intelligent enough to carry on a proper conversation. Why did they persist in talking to him as a child? An unliked one, at that.

Really, the only one whose time he had enjoyed, who had treated him as if conversation with him was a pleasure rather than a chore, had been Mycroft. He was older, but they shared much in common in terms of upbringing and intellect. His brother had recommended books and took time to discuss them. He had been there almost every time Sherlock had needed him—whether because he'd fallen and hurt himself, or just needed someone to talk to.

That had changed this year, though, when Mycroft left for school. It didn't matter that Sherlock understood school to be necessary and no reflection on him, but still, it _felt_ like abandonment. Especially when he hadn't come home for the Summer holiday. Had he lost interest in spending time with Sherlock?

So … being kidnapped by these two men—men so different than the ones he knew, with such fascinating speech patterns and odd ways of thinking—was totally new.

His eyes were open again as the thoughts whirled through his head. He watched the way they moved, how their hands waved as they argued. He was fascinated by their clothing, wearing thin at knees and elbows. He found himself staring at the calluses on their hands, the lack of manicures, but also the absence of dirt. Their hands were rough, but not from working with the earth. Tools, then? But the marks were older, as if they hadn't worked recently. Short of money then, that could explain their willingness to kidnap ... because they did not seem like accustomed criminals to Sherlock (not that he had any experience with the criminal class).

It was _fascinating_.

"What are you looking at?"

Sherlock blinked. He'd gotten so lost in his observations, he'd forgotten to feign sleep. "I'm sorry," he said, stammering slightly, "I must have fallen asleep."

"How much did you hear, kid?"

"Hear?" Sherlock tried to look confused. If they realized that he knew this was a kidnapping, it would change everything. They would stop talking to him, wouldn't play with him anymore. He'd just become a thing to be moved around, to be paid for. Just like at home.

"Yes, hear," Davy said, stepping forward. "Did you hear what we were talking about just now?"

"Just a little," Sherlock said, a shy look on his face. "You were trying to figure out where I was going to sleep tonight, and that's my fault. I shouldn't have fallen asleep so that you couldn't bring me home. Because, it's too late now, right?"

"Right," Joe said, nudging Davy to the side so he could walk toward the couch. "It would be rude to take you home this late, but it's okay, Sherlock. It's not your fault. We were… er … having too much fun and lost track of the time. You won't mind staying here tonight, will you? It'll be fun, just the three of us. We could make it a game, even."

Sherlock let a little hope show on his face (and wondered at himself that it was real). "What kind of game?"

#

Sherlock laid perfectly still in the bed next to Joe. He had to admit that the man's idea of playing Fugitive was brilliant for a man trying _not_ to appear like a kidnapper to his own captive. He had tied their wrists together (_"Pretend they're handcuffs."_) and they had sat in the dark and giggled while Davy made noises about hunting for a pair of wanted criminals out in the main room.

It had been surprisingly fun. And, of course, it left Sherlock tethered to his kidnapper while he was supposed to be asleep. Really, it had been a fairly brilliant ruse.

He had slept for a while, but now the moon was streaming in the window and he wasn't tired anymore, and so he considered the rope. It wasn't tied tightly, but the length was short enough that any movement would wake Joe.

Except, of course, that Sherlock was remarkably good at wriggling out of ropes. He doubted his parents would have approved, but one game he and his nannies had always agreed on was the Tie-Sherlock game where they would try to secure him with an assortment of silk scarves and soft rope and he would escape. He knew they liked it because it made him sit quietly for a time, but he loved it because it gave him experience. He wasn't the least interested in magic _per se_, but he devoured as many books on Harry Houdini and other escape artists as he could find. (It was only in the last year that he had convinced his nanny to try handcuffs (procuring those had been exceedingly difficult), but it was just as well Joe hadn't used those. Sherlock was confident he could pick them, but he didn't have anything handy to use without resorting to his hat, and that was just out of reach on the bedside table.

But a simple loop of rope? Child's play … literally, and with five minutes of careful work, Sherlock was free and sliding to his feet.

He picked up his boots and his hat and edged to the sliding door that divided the bedroom from the rest of the caravan. How light a sleeper was Davy? Did he dare sneak past him? Or was the window the better choice? He wasn't sure where he was going to go, or even if he wanted to escape, but he wanted to know if he _could_.

Quietly, he padded over to the window and tugged at it—too high and too hard to move. Not without at least another foot of height. So he crept back to the door, watching Joe carefully.

The man didn't move as Sherlock eased the door open (though he froze as the door squeaked in its track). He stepped through as silently as he could, peering through the darkness at Davy, stretched on the couch, his long legs dangling off the edge. It didn't look at all comfortable, and his breathing wasn't quite as regular as Sherlock could wish, but still, he walked as quietly as he could past the man to the front door. He turned the latch softly and slowly, carefully, within minutes, was outside.

He paused a moment to listen, but heard nothing from inside the trailer as he crept away, looking around with interest. The kidnapper's caravan was parked at the extreme edge of a campground (which explained the lights and water). It would need to be disconnected properly before it could be driven away, but the men's car was parked alongside—handy for a quick getaway.

He could see lights far off through the trees, and assumed that was where the main campground was. He wondered how many people were there. How many of them were families, if any of them has children his age. Not that he cared. In his experience, children his own age were exceedingly dull, but still. There were times he tired of adult companionship and wondered what it would be like to have an actual friend.

Quietly, he walked through the woods, trying to remember what he had read about navigating in the dark. It wouldn't do to get lost. He wasn't exactly sure what he owed Joe and Davy in this situation—it was true they had kidnapped him, but they had been quite decent about it. At the very least, he wanted to keep his options open.

But in the meantime—there was an entire campground full of people, of families, and he couldn't help himself as he drifted closer. He just wished some of them might be awake to talk to him.

He snapped a twig and froze, cursing himself, ears straining back toward the caravan in case Joe or Davy had heard the noise, but he'd been walking at least ten minutes—he had to be far enough away, right?

He wasn't expecting a voice from much closer, calling out, "Who's there?"

Sherlock froze. Was this a look-out he hadn't planned for?

Then in front of him, a light appeared, illuminating the rough shape of a small tent, ten yards in front of him. The voice called again, "Who's out there? Because if it's a wild animal, I'm _not_ afraid."

It was a boy's voice, not an angry man. Sherlock only wished he knew if he should feel relieved—with boys his age, one never knew.

Still, he ghosted forward, placing his feet carefully until he was a few feet away. "Hello?"

There was a flurry of movement inside the tent and then the flap was pulled back and a torch was shining right in his face. "Who are you? What are you doing outside my tent at two in the morning?"

Sherlock held his hand up, trying to shield his eyes. "I'm sorry. I was just taking a walk. I didn't mean to wake you." He started to turn to walk away.

"You're out for a walk? Now?" The torch beam lowered and a boy's face appeared at the tent flap. "Why aren't you asleep?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You're not, either."

"That's because you woke me up."

Sherlock looked at him, taking note of the way the blond hair was rumpled, the white knuckles on the torch. "You were already awake, weren't you? Listening to every noise the woods made."

The boy tilted his head. "Yeah, okay, maybe I was. But I _could_ have been asleep. What are you doing out this time of night?"

"Stretching my legs. Wanted to look around."

The boy ducked back in his tent abruptly and Sherlock stifled a sigh. Another person alienated. Good for him. He mumbled a "Sorry" and continued on, and then was completely surprised when the boy came running after him. "Why didn't you wait? I just needed to get my shoes."

With dawning delight, Sherlock looked at him again. The boy looked older than he was—ten, maybe?—but had a friendly, open expression with an edge of excitement at doing something illicit. (Though, really, he had no idea.) "You … want to walk with me?"

"Sure," the boy said. "Like you said, I wasn't really sleeping anyway. It's much better to have someone to talk to."

"You're here alone? Sherlock was surprised. He didn't think children were allowed to camp on their own.

The boy gave an expressive shrug. "Not really. My family's over there, but Dad said I could camp out in my own tent if I wanted to, so long as I checked in first thing in the morning and showed up for meals. It's a birthday treat—and believe me, not having to share with my sister is_definitely_ a treat."

"It's your birthday?"

The boy nodded happily. "Eleven. The camping was my idea. My name's John, by the way."

"Sherlock."

He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable teasing at his name but the boy just shook his hand and said, "Pleased to meet you. You here with your family?"

Sherlock blinked. How was he supposed to answer that? "Not exactly…."

#

* * *

Note: Is anyone else surprised that Sherlock took this in a completely unexpected direction? Not only did I plan on this being a light, fluffy, humorous piece that wouldn't span more than a few hours, but I never planned on John showing up! What is he doing, camping within walking distance of Sherlock's kidnappers? And knowing John and his predilection for danger, he's going to get involved somehow, and … um … yeah. This is a new ballgame, folks! Jeez, doesn't Sherlock ever sleep like he's supposed to?


	4. Chapter 4

"Let me get this straight," John said. "You were _kidnapped_ today?"

"More or less."

"More or … how can anyone be more or less kidnapped?"

Sherlock looked at him in alarm. What had he been thinking, telling this to a complete stranger? "They don't know that I know I was kidnapped."

"Wait … what?" The other boy's face crinkled in confusion. "How is that even possible?"

"They think I've been deluded into coming along for fun, that I don't know what they're doing."

The older boy's face had grown serious. "You willingly went along with two perfect strangers that you knew meant to kidnap you. Why would you do that?"

The censure in his voice rankled—though Sherlock should have expected it. "I was bored," he replied in his most austere tone, bracing himself for whatever John's no-doubt-mundane reaction was going to be.

And was completely surprised when John's face broke into a grin and he actually giggled. "That is the stupidest, most amazing thing I've ever heard. You knew all along?"

Dumbfounded, Sherlock nodded.

"But they have no idea you've cottoned on? That … that is just incredible. I mean, totally stupid, but you must be the best liar in the whole world. So, they've no idea you're even out right now?"

Sherlock shook his head, still trying to absorb this unprecedented reaction. He had never had someone wholeheartedly approve of his schemes before.

"So, what are you going to do?" John asked after they'd both had a laugh. "I mean, this really is serious—not to mention illegal. Just because they haven't hurt you doesn't mean they _won't_."

"They wouldn't dare," Sherlock said. "Not if they want my parents to pay a ransom, and I've been really obliging so far."

"Somehow," John's voice was dry, "I doubt they'll consider your wandering off in the middle of the night to be 'obliging.' You can't just risk your life because you're bored, Sherlock. That's mental."

He moved his torch suddenly, to shine in Sherlock's face. "It's not just boredom, is it? You're lonely, too, and like the attention."

Sherlock blinked in the glare until John lowered the light. He wanted to tell him he was wrong, but … there was something in the boy's face that made him pause. Compassion, maybe? Concern? "Why do you care?"

"Because you're my friend," John said, automatically, casually even, as if they hadn't only met half an hour ago. As if those weren't the most earth-shattering words Sherlock had ever heard. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Just then there was a roar of sound from the direction Sherlock had come, and crashing footsteps sounded through the woods.

John hastily put out his torch and the two boys sat, frozen for a moment in the cool night air. Then Sherlock held out a hand and quickly, quietly led John back toward his tent.

"What? Shouldn't we be heading the other way? My Dad could help."

Sherlock shook his head, and concentrated on moving as fast as he could. "No," he whispered. "They can't know that I know, remember? The minute other adults get involved, it's going to go pear-shaped. I just need to make sure you're all right. This is my mess, I don't want you dragged into it."

He was surprised when John dug in his heels and pulled his hand away. "Are you kidding me?" His voice didn't rise above a whisper, but it was venomous. "I'm trying to _help_ you and you're just going to go back to them?"

"It's the only way," Sherlock whisper-argued back. "As long as they think I'm clueless and have no reason to suspect you know anything, you'll be fine. But if they see you or you say the wrong thing, you'll be kidnapped, too, and then one of us really will get hurt! It's too big a risk!"

John's face looked utterly stunned in the moonlight, and Sherlock could hear footsteps coming closer. He grabbed John's hand again and this time the boy let him lead. They made it back to John's tent and Sherlock was about to leave when the older boy grabbed his shoulders and forced him inside. "If you want this to all be innocent, it will be innocent," John told him fiercely. "You wandered off and you found another kid to play with. It makes you weird because it's the middle of the night, but not suspicious. If you're out there on your own, they won't believe you."

So saying, he pulled the tent flap closed and lit the torch and started chattering about his friends at school and playing football, and asking Sherlock what he liked to do after school.

It took Sherlock a few moments to realize what John was doing. He had to admit, the boy's instinct for camouflage was admirable. The other boy grinned at his confusion and leaned forward to whisper, "You must be an only child. Subterfuge is a survival skill, didn't you know? Quick, though? Do you want me to call someone? I've got Mum's mobile."

Sherlock was just urgently shaking his head—having John call someone would just make things worse—when there was a loud crack of a twig snapping, and then Davy's voice. "Kid? You in there, kid?"

He met John eyes—his _friend's_ eyes—and then called out in as innocent and unsuspecting voice as he could manage, "Oh no, did I worry you? I thought I'd be back before either of you woke up."

Taking a deep breath, he lifted the tent flap.

#

He was just climbing out of the tent when Davy's large hand grabbed his arm. "Where did you go? How did you get out?"

Sherlock widened his eyes but was careful not to show anything other than hurt surprise. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep, so I came out for some air. I've never gotten to walk in the woods at night before. I thought I'd be back before you woke up. I didn't mean to worry you."

"You were coming back?" The man's voice was harsh.

"Of course," Sherlock said, nodding. He saw the hard edge of the man's anger soften just slightly and then John's voice came from the tent. "I'm afraid that's my fault, sir. I heard him outside and thought it was an animal, and well, we got talking."

Both Sherlock and Davy were staring at John now—Sherlock with a dawning horror. What was the boy doing?

"You were talking." Davy's voice was flat. "About what?"

"The reason I'm out here on my own instead of with my parents and annoying sister, mostly," John said cheerfully. "It's a special birthday treat—because it's my birthday today—and if you knew my sister…"

"All right," Davy interrupted. "But we've got to head back now. You shouldn't wander off, kid."

"I already apologized," Sherlock said with a hint of petulance. "It's not like I got lost, or anything. I would have been back by now if this boy hadn't been droning on about football." He saw a twinge of hurt pass over John's face and mentally apologized. He hoped the boy—his friend—would understand that he was trying to minimize his importance to Davy. Anything to make sure he didn't get involved.

But with a blink, the expression was gone and John was saying, "It's true. I get carried away talking about football, even though Sherlock here said he wasn't interested."

Davy's face had frozen. "Sherlock."

John's forehead creased. "Yeah … unless you lied about your name? I mean, Sherlock is kind of bizarre for a name, but it's unique. I guess it's a good name for a pirate, though, which goes along with the hat. Which is so cool, by the way. I'd never get my parents to get me anything that great. I didn't even get the mobile I wanted, though Mum gave me hers just in case anything went wrong while I was out here on my own tonight. Wanna see?"

Sherlock was appalled. What was John _doing_? The whole point was for him and Davy to leave without raising the man's suspicions and here John was, babbling about his name and his hat and how he had means to call for help … John was going to get _hurt_, all because he was a stupid idiot who clearly did NOT understand the meaning of 'subterfuge' after all.

Davy seemed to be thinking along the lines Sherlock feared—the 'leave no witnesses' train of thought—and Sherlock didn't know what to do. Why had he thought he wanted a friend? The boy was obviously an idiot. Look at him, standing there with his mobile in his hand, clearly having no idea what he's just done … except …

Sherlock blinked at him. John's face was innocent and looked totally blameless, but there was a tiny quirk to his lips when he saw Sherlock watching. He was doing this on purpose?

Why the hell was he doing this on purpose?

Seriously, what possible benefit could there be? He was just an innocent bystander who should never have been involved, yet he had just deliberately put himself into the middle of a dangerous situation. Why?

Did John think this was all a game? It was true that Sherlock was having fun, but his schoolmates had made it quite clear that his idea of fun did not match normal childrens'. Still, John was out here alone in a tent, even though he'd been nervous of noises in the night—he obviously wasn't a coward. Maybe he'd read one too many adventure books and wanted to play the game, too?

Or … he thought back to John's casual answer of "you're my friend," just a little while ago. Could he possibly be doing this … for Sherlock?

Before he could say anything, John continued, "Because I was telling Sherlock what a great breakfast Mum puts out, and was inviting him along. I usually get to invite a friend for tea for my birthday, but all my friends are back home, of course, which makes it harder, but then Sherlock showed up like magic and it would just be brilliant, so could he come? I mean, I know he's probably in trouble for skipping out in the middle of the night, but isn't that what camping is for, really? And it sure would make my birthday special. I know Mum wouldn't mind."

Slowly, Davy shook his head. "That's not possible, kid. Sherlock should never have bothered you. You … you could come with us, though. For some cocoa, maybe?"

Sherlock was shaking his head. No. This was a terrible idea. This could not happen. His own family might not care about him, but John's clearly did. They would notice he was missing and raise a fuss and everything would go terribly, horribly wrong and it would all be his fault. "Your mother wouldn't approve," he said. "You told me they made you promise you wouldn't leave the tent all night."

John just tilted his head in a quasi-shrug. "She didn't expect that I'd have visitors, either. And isn't that what the mobile is for? I'll just send them a text…"

"No," Davy said, voice urgent, but he immediately softened it. "You don't want to wake her in the middle of the night. Parents hate that kind of thing. How about you come with us now and we'll call her in the morning?"

Sherlock was staring at John, appalled at the direction this whole affair had taken. The older boy wasn't … couldn't … be planning to let himself be kidnapped, too? There was no way Davy and Joe were stupid enough to be fooled by that. This was going to escalate into something bad so fast…

"I don't know," John said, glancing back toward the main campsite. "There are all those lectures about going off with strangers…"

"Right," said Sherlock, "Because that makes parents upset. Why don't you stay here for now and we can play sometime when you've cleared it with your Mum? I don't want you to get into trouble for my sake." He tried to infuse as much urgency into his voice as he could without triggering alarms for Davy.

"Yeah, but I'm not going off with a stranger, I'm going with my friend, Sherlock," John said brightly. "If you really don't mind, sir, I'd love to come along. It's like an adventure, the middle of the night, and everything. Just a minute." He dived back into his tent where he scrambled around for a few moments and then came back out, dressed, carrying Sherlock's hat. "Cocoa sounds great."

Sherlock could barely catalog the series of emotions raging through his brain. He was furious at John for being so stupid, angry (jealous?) that someone else was taking away _his_ adventure, but also oddly warmed by the fact that John didn't want him to do this alone.

And worried. He mustn't forget the worry that all of this was going to go badly. If John got himself hurt, he would never forgive him. Or himself.

#

They walked ahead of Davy, who was intent on his phone and Sherlock took the chance to hiss, "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you're all right, idiot. I wasn't going to let you head off with two pervs just because you were bored. I want to see these two for myself."

"And if they turn violent? They could hurt you, John!"

"And you," John retorted. "Safety in numbers, eh?"

Sherlock wanted to scream at the boy. Didn't he realize that he held no value to the kidnappers whatsoever? He was expendable. If things turned pear-shaped, he could get _hurt_ and Sherlock wouldn't be able to prevent it.

But no, John was clueless, walking along without a care in the world. Sherlock had been right. Children were stupid. All children (except him). Even the nice ones.

Davy shoved his phone back in his pocket and strode forward to catch up with the two boys. "I told Joe we were bringing back a guest. It's not like we're going to get any more sleep at this point, anyway, is it, boys?"

"So, are you a couple, then?" John asked, face innocent.

Davy's face hardened, just a bit. "Nah, just friends. We thought it would be a nice weekend to go camping, is all."

"It was nice of you to bring Sherlock," John told him as Sherlock stomped alongside, fuming. "He said the summer's been really boring. Have you known him long?"

John! What are you doing? Sherlock wanted to scream. The idea is to _avoid_ knowing anything about the kidnappers. If you know too much, they can't afford to let you go. Especially if your parents aren't rich enough to pay a ransom.

Davy was answering easily, though, shoulders relaxed. "Nah. We only met this afternoon, in fact. The overnight thing was totally unplanned."

"Sometimes that just makes things more fun," John said, "Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just nodded, hands stuffed into his pockets. It had all been so nice and simple. He would let himself be kidnapped for a few hours' worth of distraction and then he would escape and be back home before anybody noticed. But now, not only had a ransom demand (presumably) been sent to his parents, but this clueless boy was involved, solely because he wanted to be Sherlock's friend.

What else could go wrong?

#

John and Sherlock were seated at the caravan's tiny kitchen table while, right outside the door, Davy and Joe were holding an urgent, whispered discussion.

It had been almost funny, the look on Joe's face when the three of them had arrived together, but he hadn't said much. He had been too busy glaring at Davy for complicating matters. He had made the cocoa, though, and made a couple jokes about how easily Sherlock made friends (which was so much funnier than he realized), and then had excused himself and practically dragged Davy through the door.

Which was fine with Sherlock, because it gave him a chance to task John with what the hell did he think he was doing?

"I told you—I wasn't letting you come back alone. They could hurt you, Sherlock!"

"And what do you think they'll do to you?" Sherlock was desperate to make John realize how dangerous this was. "Your parents aren't being asked for ransom, which means that if they decide to get serious and this turns dangerous, _you're_ the one who's going to get hurt! It was just barely believable when it was one clueless kid not realizing what was really going on, but two? They're not that stupid. It's not going to work. You have to get out of here!"

John nodded. "Fine. But you're either coming with me, or I'm calling my parents as soon as I'm gone … or the police. Why do you not understand that you can't simply stay with them?"

"Because I'm not the one who's in danger."

"Of course you are, you just don't want to see it," John told him calmly as he sipped at his cocoa. "You think it's a game … but are you really going to let your parents pay to get you out of it? Is that fair?"

"I wasn't going to let it go that far," Sherlock said, frustration practically rolling off his fingertips. "But now they have two of us … I don't think we can both escape."

John just shrugged. "So your parents get a two-for-one deal. We should enjoy our time together while we can—after this, I'm probably going to be grounded until I'm 20."

He made such a comical face, Sherlock couldn't help laughing into his mug. "It's not like it'll be the first time my parents paid for someone to be my friend."

John laughed, too, but then said, "You've got it the wrong way around. This time, they'd be paying because I _am_ your friend."

"I've only known you an hour, John. Don't exaggerate."

A quizzical look crossed John's face and he was just asking, "What does that have to do with anything?" when the two men came back inside.

"Right, sorry about that, kids. We were just figuring out what to do so John's folks wouldn't get too upset. We reckon you need to be back in your tent before they come looking for you in the morning."

John shrugged and gave a nod. "That'll work, unless you want to come for breakfast, because Mum really is a good cook. She'll likely have something special, too, since it's my birthday. She makes the best waffles, with berries and whipped cream … She promised she was bringing her waffle iron just for me. What are you all doing later, anyway? I was trying to decide if I'd rather go for a hike or go fishing, and it would be great if Sherlock could come."

Joe shook his head and came over to refill their cups. "That does sound fun, but we'll be leaving this morning. This was never meant to be a long stop for us."

John made a face, and Sherlock said, "Really? Where are we going?"

"As much as we love having you, Sherlock, we do need to get you home at some point. We're just waiting to hear back from your parents."

"Maybe you could come over and play sometime, then," John said to Sherlock. "We've got almost two months left of the summer. It would be fun."

Sherlock nodded, caught by the idea of having a friend to visit, to do things with.

"Here, put your number into my mobile and I'll call you. How's Monday sound?" Sherlock could only be impressed at John's acting. He actually sounded sincere.

He tried not to notice how carefully the two men watched as John handed him the mobile. Had they been trying to do anything illicit, he would have noticed right away. Really, though, Sherlock had just been entering his number and desperately hoping that John would call.

Almost embarrassed at the sudden desire to hear from this boy, his friend, again, Sherlock turned back to his cocoa, noting that John did the same. He fought back a yawn. The night's activity had obviously taken more of a toll than he'd realized. He wouldn't even mind a nap, except for not wanting to miss a minute of time with John and his kidnappers.

Because that's how he was thinking of them, now. Kidnappers. Now that he had John, he didn't need their attention so badly. Now that they had threatened John (in abstract, luckily, not through any direct actions), he couldn't think quite so well of them as before. They had boldly abducted this second, innocent boy solely because he had been with Sherlock when they'd found him. (And John had made a point of making sure they knew it, the idiot.) Now that there was a danger to John, it changed everything.

He yawned again, suddenly feeling heavy in all his limbs as the room spun … his eyes widened in horror as he looked at John, slumped over the table. They'd drugged the cocoa.

No. This was wrong, he thought, fighting the drug. This was bad. But the darkness loomed up and overwhelmed him, dragging him down into an unwelcome sleep.

#


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock struggled to wake, fighting to consciousness (all while mentally taking notes on the symptoms of how he felt, how the drug had made him feel, because it was fascinating). Where was John? He had to protect John.

Right now, though, he couldn't move. His limbs weren't behaving properly (which was intriguing), and he felt weighted down, smothered… Of course. It was the blanket again, in the back of the car. Now he could feel the motion beneath him as he tried to take stock.

He wasn't tied, he realized, just thoroughly wrapped in the blanket. He begrudgingly admitted that was smart. If they were stopped, if it was noticed, a blanket could be excused away to anyone looking as the results of a restless sleep or something, but it hampered him enough to make moving almost impossible—certainly not without slowing him down or drawing attention.

Carefully, he moved his head, trying to feel for his hat and breathed a (hot, stifled) sigh of relief when he felt it rubbing against the blanket. If they had hurt John, he was going to activate his tracker with delight.

Where was John? There wasn't enough room on this seat for both of them, and he couldn't believe that they would have put one child in the boot, but not the other. At least, he hoped not. His kidnappers had seemed reasonably intelligent so far. He and John had both made a point of the fact that his family was expecting him for breakfast, that he would be missed. He wasn't surprised that they were on the move—getting away from that campsite was the smartest move they could make … but what had they done to John?

Visions of his friend locked, unconscious, in the empty caravan flitted through his brain. Or… killed and left in the woods. Tied up in the boot … where was he?

He strained his ears. He could hear voices, but they were muffled by the blanket, making it hard to make anything out. Was it even worth it, he wondered, to pretend to be unaware of what was happening anymore? He would have to the stupidest child in the world not to be suspecting something at this point, especially following that cocoa. He tried to analyze whether being untied now was a good or bad sign. Should he admit that he knows he's been kidnapped? Or wait to see what happens next?

Carefully, he slid a hand up under the blanket to pull it away from his face. He needed to hear what was going on, see if John was with him. It was hard, finding an end of the blanket without looking like he was awake, but he finally managed to find a corner and pry it out from under his head so he could listen.

"…didn't move the whole way. With any luck, he'll think the whole thing was a dream. The boss said the drug might make his memory a little foggy. It was the middle of the night, and he's just a kid … we can hope."

"What about Sherlock's number, though?"

"I deleted that before I left. There's no proof that Sherlock was in that tent, and none in the caravan. Even if the kid convinces his parents that something was up, there's nothing for anyone to find. Just a foggy memory of a kid with a weird name."

"Except he saw our faces."

"Yeah, I know, but the boss was insistent." There was a long pause and then, "Sherlock has, too."

"It's going to be a problem, isn't it?"

Sherlock stopped listening, though. He couldn't believe the raging fury he felt. They had stolen his friend from him! He was relieved to know—he_was_—that John was safe and would be fine once he woke up, but they had removed his number from the phone? Made sure there was nothing to show that he'd been there? How was his friend supposed to contact him? He didn't even know his last name … if he even remembered him.

Finally … _finally_ … he'd found a friend, one who was willing to risk his life for him, and they had casually just taken that away? As if it were nothing?

And so, steaming from more than just the heat under the blanket in the warming July morning air, Sherlock started to make plans.

#

When he was ready to "wake up," Sherlock squirmed under the blanket, making small noises that he hoped were convincing. He moved slowly, haltingly at first, and then struck out against the blanket, fighting to get free. He reasoned this would be the natural behavior of a normal boy, waking up smothered in a blanket.

He could almost feel the attention of the kidnappers turning his way. "Hey, Sherlock, easy there," Joe's voice came. "Just relax."

But Sherlock continued to struggle, finding it almost a release for his frustrations. He was panting when he finally worked his head free, exploding out of the stifling layers of wool. "What … Where are we? Where's John?"

"Easy, kid. Everything's fine," Joe's voice was soothing. "I told you we were moving on this morning, didn't I? That's all. Are you hungry?"

Sherlock tried to calm his breathing, drawing in the fresh air with relief. "Where's John?" he asked again.

"Back in his tent," Davy said, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. "You were both so tired, you fell asleep. I carried him back to his tent so his parents wouldn't be worried about him. He's fine."

"Really?"

"Of course," Davy's voice was calm. "I couldn't let him stay with us—his parents would have been frantic. I didn't think any of us needed the fuss. It was just easier to bring him back and let him sleep."

"But I didn't get a chance to say goodbye," Sherlock said, surprised at the way his voice hitched on the word.

"Well, you're the one that fell asleep," Joe said. "I'm sure you'll make it up to each other when he calls you tomorrow."

Sherlock hid a wince at that. He knew the boy wouldn't … couldn't. "You think he will?"

"Of course, why wouldn't he?" Joe's voice was a shade too hearty, and for a moment, Sherlock hated him. To be obliging, though, he just nodded. "So … breakfast? I'm starving."

#

Twenty minutes later, he was tucking into a huge breakfast at a roadside coffee shop. He hadn't realized being kidnapped would work up such an appetite. Or maybe it was the rage, because make no mistake, he was furious. He couldn't think of any way to contact John when this was over. He didn't know the boy's last name, didn't know where he lived or the name of his school. He didn't even know the name of the campground they'd stayed at—though he supposed he could extract that information from his kidnappers before they left.

Really, though, he was done with this now. Ready to go home.

And so he sat next to Joe in the booth and focused on the waffles and berries (John had made it sound so good). He had barely eaten yesterday and the strain was apparently taking a toll. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been quite so hungry.

He let the two men talk past him while he ate, though they said nothing of interest, nothing that gave any information away. Davy mentioned hearing from 'the boss' who was looking for an update on their latest 'project,' but other than that, the two of them focused on being friendly. Sherlock considered that as he chewed. It made sense, really. If they were being sullen and secretive, they'd make more of an impression on the staff, but by looking like a friendly little family, they would be forgotten as soon as they left.

Unless they did something memorable.

Sherlock could feel his lips twitching as he thought of all the ways he could make everyone in this coffee shop remember the three of them very, very well—because one thing he was good at was drawing attention.

First, though, he felt he owed it to his kidnappers to have one chance to do the right thing. Regardless of their behavior toward John, they had been quite decent throughout this whole experience, but John had made a valid point. It wasn't fair to make his parents pay ransom for his return, not when it had been his choice to come. Not when he could bring this to an end at any time.

Not that he expected his parents to care much, one way or another.

Still … it was time. And so, he swallowed his last bite of waffle and took a sip of milk from his glass as he looked at the two men. "I think it's time we talked," he told them.

Davy just lifted his eyebrows and continued eating his eggs, while Joe asked, "What do you want to talk about, kid?"

"About this kidnapping," Sherlock said calmly, taking great pleasure in their bug-eyed reactions as Davy nearly choked and Joe practically spit tea all over the table.

"This … this _what_?" Joe sputtered.

"Kidnapping," Sherlock said, keeping his voice level. "I could say it much, much louder if you want." He almost laughed at the horror on the two men's faces as they quickly looked around the room to see if anyone was listening. "Good. I think this has gone far enough, don't you?"

"I don't know what you think is going on here," Davy said, his voice admirably calm, though Sherlock could see the strain around his eyes as he stared at him. "I thought we were just having fun together?"

"We were," Sherlock said with a small nod. "It's one of the reasons I came along."

"Came … along?"

"Of course. You don't think you fooled me, did you? Playing Pirate? It was obvious when you pulled me out of the stream. Why else would you have had the sack and rope? And the drive to the caravan with me tied up in the back seat?" He relished the twin looks of shock and couldn't help but repeat, "Obvious."

"But …" Joe was clearly struggling, "We were just playing. You think this was a … a kidnapping?" His voice dropped to a whisper on the last word.

"Oh, definitely. A very polite one, I must say," Sherlock said. "I've really quite enjoyed myself, and am obliged to both of you for teaching me poker. I hadn't known how to play before and was curious."

Davy was staring at him now with a hard look. "I don't know why you brought this up, kid, but I hope you don't think it changes anything."

"Oh, no," Sherlock disagreed. "I think it changes everything—because we _were_ having fun, and you _were_ very decent about the whole thing. But then you took my friend away."

"John?" Davy sounded surprised. "I told you, we took him back to his tent. He's perfectly fine, I promise. You wouldn't have been happier with him here, would you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But you took him away. He was my very first friend, and you drugged him and took him away and deleted my number and hoped he wouldn't even remember me!"

"You … you heard that?" Joe rubbed his hand over his face. "Yeah, okay. But you have to realize, we were trying to do right by the kid. We couldn't keep him, we certainly didn't want to hurt him, and the only way we could bring him back without the whole thing exploding in our faces was to put him to sleep and hope for the best. We didn't … wait. Did you say your _first_ friend?"

Sherlock nodded, furious now with a cold rage. "Yes. And now I don't even know if he even remembers me, and I know for a fact he can't contact me even if he does. That's because of the two of you. Which is why we're having this talk. I want you to fix it."

"Fix it?" Davy gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I think you've gotten confused about who's in charge here, Sherlock."

"Am I?" Sherlock could almost feel sorry for the man. "As of right now, you haven't actually done anything wrong … or not too wrong. I came willingly, which means you're not guilty of kidnapping … yet. Technically. Right now, you could still walk away without any charges. I could conveniently forget your names and faces, too, so that my description to the police—if they bothered to ask—would be singularly unhelpful."

He reached for his glass and took another sip of milk. "And, of course, one shouldn't discount the GPS tracker and distress button which I pressed ten minutes ago."

He almost relished the matching dumbfounded looks. "You've got three choices, as I see it. You could abandon me here and run, trusting me to be sufficiently vague about descriptions. You could go through with your original kidnapping plan and take me with you—but not before I made a fuss that would make everyone here remember us, and after which my memory would be quite good. Or," he cradled the sweating glass in his hands, "You can take me back to the campground and leave me with John and his family, and I'll tell everyone who asks that I've spent the last two days with friends. I realize that none of these includes the possibility of claiming ransom, but … that was never going to happen."

"It … wasn't?" It sounded as if Joe barely managed to get the words out.

Sherlock shook his head. "I told you. I knew right away what you were up to, and I could certainly have gotten away through the woods, but you were so obliging about my hat, and I really was bored. I've quite enjoyed myself."

Joe silently repeated 'enjoyed myself,' as Sherlock looked at Davy. "So, what will it be? We've got about ten minutes before my distress signal is answered—and no, it wouldn't do you any good to smash it. Once it's activated, it gets responded to, period. Unless I disable it with a special code that only I know. Which I will do, if you take me back to the campground. You can leave me there and I'll find my own way home."

Davy was just staring. "I'm sorry, kid, but you don't understand. We've got a boss who's expecting this little trip to be profitable. We can't just … it doesn't work this way!"

"And your boss has only given instructions over the phone, correct?" At his nod, Sherlock smiled with all the confidence and determination of a seven year-old genius. "Then it's simple. Let me talk to him."

#

Two hours later, Sherlock hopped out of the car and looked at his two kidnappers. "Thanks," he told them. "It's been fun."

Both of them still looked dumbstruck. Neither had said a word on the drive from the coffee shop, not since Davy took the phone back and his boss had told him to do what Sherlock said.

Sherlock thought they were both in shock. If nothing else, they clearly weren't used to being outsmarted by a seven year-old. They'd been so obliging, though, he found he forgave them for their part in separating him from John—he just hoped the boy and his family were still here.

He didn't have much time to worry about it, though, because he had barely turned away from the car when he heard a voice shout his name and saw John running toward him. "Sherlock! I'm so glad to see you! You're okay?"

Sherlock nodded, a smile spreading across his face. John remembered him! "I'm fine, never better. You? You were okay this morning?"

"Confused as anything," John told him. "One minute I was drinking cocoa with you, the next it was morning and Mum was shaking me awake, looking worried."

"Worried?"

John shrugged. "Yeah. I'm not usually that sound a sleeper, but she had a hard time waking me up. It's no big deal. But you! How'd you get away?"

"I didn't," Sherlock told him. "I convinced them to bring me back here to spend the day with you."

John's face stilled. "You're kidding. That's not possible. They kidnapped you, and then you talked them into letting you go? Pull the other one."

"I told you, I was very obliging—and just convinced them to be the same. I pointed out that, since I had gone willingly, it didn't count as kidnapping, and if they brought me back here, I'd conveniently forget their names and faces. It took a little bit, but they came around in the end—especially once I told them I'd already pressed my distress button."

"Distress button?"

Sherlock was relieved to see John looked more amused than skeptical, and just nodded happily. "Inside my pirate hat. It's really a good thing I didn't leave it in your tent."

"I guess so," John said, a grin spreading across his face. "I really was worried about you when I woke up, you know, especially when I saw the car was gone. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you."

"Really?" Sherlock hated the note of hesitation in his voice. What if John had changed his mind about being his friend? What if he'd decided he wasn't interested in playing with someone so much younger?

"Of course," John told him. "You think I'd lie about something like that? I was terrified you were going to be hurt and there was nothing I could do about it."

"That's the way I felt last night when you insisted on coming back with me."

John just grinned even wider. "We're two of a kind, then. So—are you on your own? No kidnappers or parental figures lurking about?"

"On my own," Sherlock said. "I've got all afternoon before my ride shows up."

"Brilliant. So, what do you want to do first? Are you hungry? Did I tell you what a great cook Mum is?"

He turned and trailed after John, who was chattering now about how wonderful his Mum's sandwiches were, and how she'd brought his birthday cake with them, and he hoped Sherlock had an appetite because it was going to be epic. Sherlock couldn't help the warm feeling spreading through his chest. He had a friend.

#

Hours later, a tired, dirty, bug-bitten Sherlock climbed wearily into his parents' car, sliding into the backseat next to his brother as the driver pulled out of the parking lot.

"Well," Mycroft said as he looked at him. "You look as if you've had … fun."

Sherlock nodded happily. "Best weekend, ever, Myc. I've got a _friend_."

"Indeed?"

"Mmm. His name is John and it's his birthday today. He's eleven and his parents brought him and his sister camping as a special treat. All four of them. _Together_. Can you imagine our family doing that?"

He tried not to giggle at the slightly pained expression on Mycroft's face as he pictured it. He snuggled up against his brother with a sigh of contentment. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Sherlock. I'm sorry I wasn't home for the beginning of the holidays. I did try to make it up to you … did it help?"

He nodded. "Being kidnapped was brilliant. What made you think of it?"

He could almost feel Mycroft smiling. "I just thought my pirate brother deserved an adventure, and trusted you wouldn't let it go so far as Mummy and Father actually having to pay the ransom—though I admit I was concerned when Davy called to tell me you'd brought along a playmate."

"My _friend_," Sherlock corrected him. "And John brought himself, practically. He kept dropping hints that he knew things so that Davy couldn't leave him behind. It was frustrating. He was doing everything wrong and I was afraid he was going to get hurt, but when I asked him …" his voice trailed off.

"Mm?" Mycroft was stroking his hair now, encouraging him to continue talking.

"He said that he did it to be sure that I would be all right," Sherlock told him quietly, a touch of awe in his voice. "Nobody other than you has ever done that before. Looked out for me, I mean, just because you wanted to. Not because you had to."

"And that's why you wanted to go back?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling comfortable and sleepy now. "I've never had a friend before."

"I look forward to meeting him," his brother's voice was soft.

Sherlock frowned, reminded. "His family is moving north and they don't have an address yet. I gave him mine, but I don't know when I'll get to see him again."

"Don't worry," Mycroft told him. "I'm sure you will."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, until Sherlock was all but asleep, when Mycroft asked, "Sherlock, where's your hat?"

#


	6. Epilogue

**Several Decades Later**

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. John had spent the day unpacking and trying to find room for his things in amongst Sherlock's clutter. He had gotten all the daily necessities stowed away and was down to his last box (battered and closed with old, dusty tape—it hadn't been opened in years).

"I was just going through this old box of mine," John said as he came down the stairs and entered the sitting room. "It's been in storage for years and I haven't … I should have realized … I mean, how many people do you ever meet named Sherlock?"

He paused to gather himself and then asked, an odd, wistful smile on his face, "Does this look familiar to you?"

He held up a black pirate hat.

Sherlock could almost swear his heart had stopped as he reached out a hand. "Where did you get that?" he asked, lightly stroking the edges, running his finger along the brim, then turning it over and prodding at the crown.

"I met his remarkable kid the summer I turned eleven. He'd been kidnapped and actually outwitted the two men who'd taken him and managed to convince them to bring him back so he could spend the afternoon with me. It was one of the best days of my life—it was my birthday, even." John's voice was soft, weighted with the memory. "And when he left, he left me his hat—but he never told me his full name, or how to reach him. I've wondered for years what happened to him."

Sherlock didn't look up from the hat, he was so overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. How much he had cared about his friend, how hurt he had been that John had never written. How had he failed to recognize him when Mike introduced them at the lab just two days ago?

He tried to keep his voice light as he said, "You never wrote."

"You didn't give me your address," John said gently. "It's not like I could do an internet search back then. I had no way of finding you."

Sherlock kept his eyes on the hat. "I did leave you my address."

"No. I would remember."

Sherlock's long fingers were already at work, pulling away the false lining in the crown, revealing the hiding spot with his survival kit, distress button and … brittle and yellowed now, as he eased it out … a piece of paper covered in a child's handwriting.

"Jesus," John breathed. "I had no idea that was in there. Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought the hiding place was obvious, I just assumed you'd find it. When you didn't write … I thought you had decided not to be my friend anymore."

"No, never," John told him. He was standing next to the table, waiting for Sherlock to look up. "I wouldn't have … But when I couldn't get in touch … well, you know how it is when you're a kid. People come and go and it's not like you have control over any of it. I was just grateful for that one amazing, wild day. It's why I kept the hat, even though it never fit—it reminded me of you."

He stared at the hat for a minute, then shook his head. "I don't know how I didn't make the connection when Mike introduced us. Or, you know, when we were chasing the cab together. Or when you willingly went off with a kidnapper. I mean … how many crazy people named Sherlock can there be?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Most people consider one to be more than sufficient."

John laughed. "One's enough for me. I'm just glad we found each other again. You'd think I would have made the connection when both of us were kidnapped within a few hours of each other last night. It seems to be a theme for us."

Now Sherlock was chuckling, too. "Especially considering Mycroft was behind yours … and mine, all those years ago."

"What? Mycroft arranged for his little brother to be kidnapped? What did you do, steal his action figures?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Quite the contrary. He arranged it as a special treat, an adventure, because he knew how bored I'd been all summer."

He braced himself, waiting for John's response. Was he going to decide the Holmes family was too crazy, too intrusive? Decide he'd be better off finding another flatmate? But then John just shook his head. "Well, sure. Because, naturally, being kidnapped is nothing but fun … you're not going to be boring at all, are you?"

They smiled at each other for a long moment (it felt so good), and then John looked curious. "I thought you said the hat had a tracking device? Why didn't you just use that to find me?"

"Oh, it does," said Sherlock. "Unfortunately, once my parents learned I'd lost it, they disabled it—despite my pleas that we could use it to find the hat. They said it was a 'lesson,' and of course, it's not like I could say I'd left it behind after being kidnapped. Mycroft would have been in too much trouble."

"I'm surprised you care—I thought he was your archenemy?"

"Well, yes, John. _Now_. But it was different we were children."

John just smiled and looked like he wanted to swat him upside the head. "I'd imagine all sorts of things were different. Being kidnapped for fun. Unbelievable. And you call me the idiot. But, er … you can just keep that hat, yeah?"

Sherlock beamed, feeling a sense of rightness, as if something that had been off had just clicked into place. "My pleasure. I can't wait to show it to Mycroft. You know, he _did_ say he was looking forward to meeting you."

"Yeah, well, just tell him next time to skip the kidnapping or I'll think he doesn't know any other tricks. Want some tea?"

Nodding, Sherlock gave the pirate hat one more stroke before laying it carefully next to his microscope. Against all odds, he'd found his friend again.

#

**A Year Later**

"It's good of you to come, but we really don't need you, Sherlock. We caught the guys in the room with the murder weapon, though they're insisting they're innocent." Lestrade tilted his head to the two men being handcuffed in the back room. "Though, John, one of them got a bump on the head, if you'd be willing to take a look? Since the paramedics haven't arrived yet?"

John nodded and walked through to the back while Sherlock scanned the crime scene. It seemed fairly straight-forward, if violent. The dead body lay in a pool of blood from what looked to be multiple stab wounds. Although … He looked back at the two older men in custody, something niggling at the back of his brain.

Oh. Of course.

He strode through the door, eyes examining everything, but resting mostly on the two suspects being tended by John's competent medical care. "Let me see your hands," he told them and after a cursory glance, turned back to Lestrade. "These aren't your men."

"Are you kidding? They were right here at the scene, and both have rap sheets a mile long. It's clear-cut."

"Any violent crime on those sheets?" Sherlock asked, but he was already hurrying on. "No, of course not. They have been on the wrong side of the law for years, but never for anything violent. They considered it once when they were younger, but caught themselves and while they've committed any number of petty crimes, they have never physically hurt anyone. Certainly not your victim. Blood-spatter alone would exonerate these two men, since there's no way they could have stabbed him so many times without getting any blood on their clothes or on their hands."

He spun and gestured toward the bag sitting on the floor. "No, these men stumbled on the scene accidentally. They were actually breaking in to rob the place—you can see the forced entry on the back window—but once in, they found the victim. Their timing was remarkable, really, since the murder had happened only minutes before. In fact, I think you'll find that they are the closest thing to an eyewitness you're likely to have. The killer forced his way past them—hence the blow to Joe's head. You can see the faint hint of a footprint here on the mat."

Jaws had dropped all around the room, with everyone except John looking flummoxed. He glanced at John's patient and stepped up to the other man. "So, Davy? Did you see anyone?"

The larger man's face was blank. "How did you know all that? And how did you know my name?"

Sherlock smiled tightly and then leaned forward and said quietly so that his voice didn't carry past the four of them, "We've met—I'm sure you remember, though you served some very questionable cocoa and I was wearing a pirate hat at the time." He paused to relish the look of shock and then straightening, "If it helps, though, my name is Sherlock Holmes. You might remember my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson, though he prefers tea these days. Maybe we should discuss this later, after the murder is solved?"

He glanced at John, relishing the dawning look of glee on his friend's face before turning back to Lestrade.

#

An hour or so later, the four of them were standing on the pavement outside the house. Sherlock had persuaded Lestrade not to press charges for the aborted robbery since Davy and Joe had actually turned out to be helpful.

He had been intercepting looks from them all evening—stunned, awed, disbelieving—all while John just looked amused. His sole comment had been, "I don't even pretend to understand how things work around you anymore, Sherlock. I'm just surprised you haven't run across them before, but … bit of a coincidence, don't you think?"

So now they stood in the light of a streetlamp, the two criminals looking awkward and grateful. "So, you're a police detective?" Joe finally asked.

"Hardly," sniffed Sherlock. "I'm a consulting detective—they consult me when they need my help, which was fortunate for you today."

"Thanks for that," said Davy. "I didn't know how we were going to convince them … we're not killers!"

"No, you're not," Sherlock told him. "Much better as kidnappers."

Joe looked embarrassed. "Look, I don't … we're sorry about that."

Sherlock just shook his head. "No, no, don't be. It was one of the most enjoyable experiences of my childhood. No apologies necessary. In fact, had you not kidnapped me, I wouldn't have met John."

Davy turned to look at John. "So … you two have been friends this whole time?"

"Not exactly," John said. "He hid his address in the lining of his pirate hat and I never knew. We lost track completely until last year, when a mutual friend introduced us."

"And now here we are, like old times," Sherlock said, eyes alight. "I almost feel as if we should invite my brother."

"Your brother?"

Sherlock nodded. "But, of course, you never met. He was your boss during your kidnapping venture."

"Wait … your _brother_ arranged for you to be kidnapped?" Davy's voice was disbelieving.

"Indeed. He knew I was bored and wanted to help, though there wasn't much he could do, being only fourteen and stuck in school. So he hired the two of you, trusting that your anti-violent tendencies would keep me safe. Tendencies, I might add, which led to your decent treatment of both me and John—and your obvious innocence in this murder tonight."

John was watching the two older men with sympathy. "Sherlock, give them a moment to process this. You just told them they were hired by a teenager—it's a bit of a shock."

"I suppose," Sherlock said. "I've always wondered, though—did you get paid at all for that job? Or were you relying on the ransom?"

Davy looked beyond the power of speech, so Joe answered, "We got paid up front—which is odd, now I think on it. All the expenses for the car and caravan were covered, but we were supposed to get a cut of the ransom … how could your brother do that to your parents?"

"Oh, they never even knew about it," Sherlock told him. "They were out of the country at the time. The number Mycroft gave you was actually one of his, so your ransom demand didn't really go anywhere. He counted on me escaping so that he wouldn't have to pay—it would have been difficult, of course, because he hadn't come into his trust fund yet. The only one really put out by the affair was my nanny who tried to cover up the fact that I was missing for two days and deserved getting fired for it. Dreadful woman."

He glanced up and saw the nearest CCTV camera pointing their way and gave a little wave and then chuckled when his phone chimed.

_—Tell Davy and Joe I said hello._

THE END

##


End file.
